originally posted 3/07

Jim and I flew down to Cancun, Mexico for a week of fun, relaxation and sun. Magaly (my sister-in-law) has three siblings who live with their families in the area and we stayed with them rather than in a hotel. On Day One of our trip, Magaly's sister-in-law, Laura, took us to what is called the Hotel Zone. The spring-breakers who usually haunt the chic hotels in this area had not yet arrived in force and, we realized after talking to several people, that they wouldn't be coming in the droves of years past. This is because Hurricane Wilma hit the area hard last October and I hadn't realized how it had devastated Cancun until I saw it with my own eyes. There are literally miles of palm trees stripped of every leaf, still leaning in the direction the storm whipped them almost 6 months ago. Almost every hotel bears residual damage...some, like the Hilton, in such disrepair that they still won't open for months, some open but still superficially wounded and some that are simply abandoned, with no intention for re-opening. You can also sense the psychological scars of the people who lived through the storm. Literally every person we talked to, from family members to taxi drivers had a story about Hurricane Wilma. Lupe (Magaly's sister) is a doctor and talked of all the people who came into her hospital in the days after the hurricane claiming that they had been hit by debris in the storm and needed stitches, but she knew they had most likely injured themselves looting. Mario (Magaly's brother) talked wearily of the 30 days it took before they got electricity back in their neighborhood and how everyone kept round the clock shifts for safety purposes (he somehow always got the early morning shift and then got to go to work afterwards). One person talked about the smell of burning tires from the bonfires that were lit in the streets at night. Another talked about how all the fine white sand that makes Cancun's beaches so beatiful was simply blown away until all that was left was a foundation of limestone.
On day two, Jim and I took a ferry to Isla Mujeres where we rented a golf cart to tour the small island and visited a turtle sanctuary. As I took pictures of iguanas lazing in the afternoon sun, Jim scared me with a stick by saying that an iguana was running over my feet. I yelled, of course, and then hit him (you think that he would have learned from the pencil incident). We spent the late afternoon flopped on our backs on the beach drinking margaritas and gazing into the impossibly blue sea. Then we had this amazing dinner of shrimp scampi for only 100 pesos each while water laped the edges of the deck where we sat before we boarded the ferry for home. On Day Three we boarded a bus at 8:00 a.m. to go to Chichen Itza. This would be my second attempt to visit the ancient Mayan ruin. In 1997, I had started the trek with Jim, Magaly and several of her relatives in a dilapitated car that had a radiator problem...as soon as we were deep enough into the jungle for it to be inconvenient, the car broke down on us and we had to turn back. So I was very excited to be on the bus that would take me to this adventure almost 9 years later. But after we were about a half hour out of Cancun, the bus suddenly pulled to the side of the road and the tour guide told us we had to go back. Seems that President Bush was at the ruins and they closed down the entire freeway as a protective measure (with good reason...we were later told that the Mayans actually came out of the jungle to protest him). After a lot of confusion, Jim secured a handwritten note from the tour guide promising two seats on the bus that would leave the next day. We weren't very certain the company would make good on the scribbled note that represented more than $75 to us for the tickets we originally purchased. When we called Mario, who works for a local hotel and he promptly got his car over to us and insisted that we drive to Playa Del Carmen. On our way, we briefly got lost on the outskirts of town and the clearly depressed neighborhoods were a sobering experience. Once we found the hotel area, we marveled at how much more upscale it was than Cancun and we had ourselves another lazy afternoon sipping margaritas on the beach. Jim got into a conversation about global economics with a gentleman that had been travelling around in Central America for the past month and I immersed myself in a romance novel.
On Day Four, we re-boarded the bus at 8:00 a.m. presenting our handwritten note with no problem at all. Bush was by then immersed in a summit meeting and didn't interupt our plans again. Chichen Itza was breathtaking--both figuratively and literally. I have never been so hot in my life but I was in awe the entire time. My brother has a special fascination with the Mayan culture and, exasperated after hearing just the introduction from the tour guide filled with false information, took me away from the group and gave me my own guided tour. It was amazing to be able to see all that has been pieced together like a puzzle to reconstruct the ancient Mayan city, but mostly I itched to dig into the mounds of clearly untouched ruins...what secrets did THOSE hold...on the way back from Chichen Itza, we stopped in a small Mayan town for an authentic meal of all you can eat hot dogs :P and we then swam in a cenote (a deep hole in the ground filled with supposedly fresh water, though my brother later pointed out all the swallows that were living, and pooping, in the cave and if the stench coming off my bathing suit was any indication, I would say that water hadn't been fresh for months..ewwwww...

On Day Five we shopped at a place called 28th Street Market which boasts at least 100 shops and according to the locals is the ONLY place to go to get fair prices for, well, anything! Unfortunately, there were a lot of strikes against me from the start. First of all, I am not much of a shopper. I much prefer experiences to material goods so I tend to be rather impatient in settings where I foresee hours worth of shopping (that is not much of an experience to me). Also, I had not really formulated in my head what I wanted to get anyone (I tend to think about it and then get my shopping over with in a relatively short time span once I know what I want) so I wasn't mentally prepared, but the REAL issue turned out to be the many, many, many vendors trying to hustle you into their store. I got sooooo tired of people trying to sweet talking me into looking at their stuff and then berating me when I didn't. I started off nice, "no, sorry, but thanks" and I ended by briskly walking past with a beligerent look on my face...the look also did not help in the negotiation of the prices...as you can imagine, I tend to be a person who just wants to be told what something costs and then I will make my decision about whether or not to buy. As it happens, my sister-in-law is a master negotiator and I usually rely on her for what I consider to be this unpleasant task, but alas she was back in the States working, so I turned to my brother for help. I choose a few things and relied on his good Spanish to weather me through. I much more enjoyed the slushy afterwards. That evening we attended a birthday fiesta for Magaly's niece and nephew. Watching the preparations for the party was fascinating. The entire extended family was involved. On the first night in town we went with Laura to pick up paper mache for the pinata, the next morning we watched Lupe melt chocolate and drizzle it into plastic forms for big chocolate suckers. Then the night we arrived home from Chichen Itza family members from out of town starting to arrive enmasse to start the extensive cooking process. Talk about a spread...there was no less than 4 different kinds of meat and various accompanying items in addition to two huge cakes. It was a relaxing evening of watching kids enjoy the antics of a professional clown and debating politics with family members.
Day Six turned out to be one of the best days in recent memory. We started the day by meeting up with Mario, Laura and their daughter Leslie. We all tumbled into their car at 6:30 a.m., more tired than usual because of losing an hour to daylight savings and a late night before at the fiesta. We took the freeway with the intent to catch a ferry to another island called Holbox. On our way there we passed village after village of clear poor, but hard working people who had carved out an existence against the harsh backdrop of the jungle. We also almost killed ourselves as we spotted one of at least a million of the speedbumps that litter the freeway a little late and had to burn rubber before sliding over it a little fast. When we got to the dock, Mario let us all get out and went to go park. As he came back, he talked to the owner of an independent boat who offered to take us not only to Holbox, but also to an island inhabited by birds and a freshwater lake. The price would be $75 for the four of us...Mario was intrigued, but wavered until the guy also said that if we got lucky we might see dolphins. DOLPHINS! We were in. The bird island was fascinating. The hurricane had shoved literally tons of shells onto the island that glistened in the late morning sun. A short walk around the island revealed several animal inhabitants including crabs, iguanas and...well...birds. We found a bird egg nestled in the sand with a protective mama nearby and leisurely walked back to the boat. Back on the water, we were lulled by the motor and the reflection off the water, just completely relaxing. All of a sudden, our captain (isn't that what you call all men in charge of a boat, even if it is only 15 feet long?) pointed south and said "Delphins"...Dolphins! We all jumped up and intensely surveyed the area of water that he had pointed to. We didn't see anything. The captain patiently turned the boat in that direction and sure enough, there they were. There was two pods of about 4 dolphins each and they were in a playful mood. Our captain quietly, but assuredley, inched our boat closer and closer and before we knew it, dolphins were arching out of the water a mere five feet from our boat. I was in heaven. Seriously, it was one of the most amazing moments I have had in at least a decade. I definitely have an interest in dolphins, but don't feel comfortable going to any of the entertainment attractions that house them as it has been well documented that they are a social creature that really suffers in confinement. So to see this animal in its own environment was almost overwhelming. After about 20 minutes of life among dolphins, they eventually got ahead of us and we turned toward our original destination, Holbox. When we first got off the boat, we were all a bit drained from the dolphin experience. So we slowly walked up the chalky street to the small town in the middle of the island. Stopping a man and buying ice cream off the back of his bicycle revived us enough to find a little restaurant for some real lunch. With our stomachs full, we rented a golf cart and headed for the beach. This is where the true leisure began. Cold beer. A deserted beach. Blue water for miles and sun, sun, sun. I was determined to come back from this vacation with a tan. Now, I don' t just tan, I have to burn first and then the color eventually subdues into colors more fit for fashion. So I found myself a piece of beach and I settled there for a solid 45 minutes. Sure enough, I was crunchy for a couple of days afterwards, but as expected, I was able to wear a sleeveless shirt on my first day back to work sporting a brown that my co-workers envied. On our return from Holbox, we stopped at a fresh water lake on yet another deserted island. By the time we reached our car to go home we were TIRED. It was a great lazy day in the sun and our tummys were full of food and it was nap time. Unfortunately, it was also now time to drive one of the scariest roads I have ever been on...we were back on the freeway (as opposed to the tollway, which more resembles our freeways)...and to the speedbumps. I bumped my brother sitting next to me in the backseat everytime I saw Mario's eyes droop in the drivers seat. Laura and Leslie were fast asleep in the passenger seat and I was scared to death. I told my brother to convince Mario to take over the driving. Mario resisted at first, but then relented and let Jim drive. We drove into a historic city called Valledolid and had great panuchos and churros. The next two days passed in a blur of sunburn and family obligations. It was an incredible trip that I won't soon forget.

Originally posted 10/06


Day: October 29, 2005

Today Kelly and I drove to Chowchilla to deliver the last puppy in her litter to a family that lives in Southern California...Chowchilla was sort-of halfway and there is a restaurant there my family has used to meet at in the past. In addition to the family coming to get the puppy, another family with 2 tibbies of their own came to meet us and we had a verifiable tibbie tailgate party admist truckers and farmers showing up for the great breakfast at Farnesi's Steakhouse and with the smell of cow dung hanging heavily in the air. I took my beloved dog (Simon) seen above keeping a lookout for his tibbie friends. Simon had a grand time and we got a phone call that night with a report that the puppy got to his new home safe and sound and was being introduced to the household. We came home and put our house back together after weeks of makeshift barricades to keep the pups separate from the "big" dogs.

Originally posted elsewhere on 10/29/05. Moved to Musings on 1/11/10


Day: October 23, 2005

Road trip! Organized by my brother: 2 trucks, 2 kids, 2 in-laws, 12 hours and lots of fun! Victor ate spicy cheetos (you know, the red kind) and then barfed going through the curvy roads. The kids and I sang all the old songs and recited the tongue twisters my dad taught me when I was their age (old Clementine and "round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascle ran!). Bussels and bussels of pinecones were collected for holiday decorating. A couple of picturesque reststops. Unbelieveable bumpy road to Bodie (my precious truck!) and then a walk through an old ghost town. Bodie is an old wild west mining town where, according to the literature provided by the State park, "murders were so common as to be mundane". We were there on a perfectly great day--not too hot, not too cold--but most of the year it is either sweltering or frigid (as in 104 degrees or 5 feet of snow)...the town was evacuated in the 1930's after a fire broke out and the state has preserved it exactly as it was left. Eerie to say the least. Great photo ops. There is a legend that says if you take anything from Bodie, bad luck will befall you (very smart of the people who are trying to maintain the town and at the same time make it available to the public) so we very diligently took nothing but our memories and a few pictures.

Well, he finally did it (to review Simons proclivity for eating non-edible items, please review first post).

The Results In Numbers:

Number of times he hucked up foreign items in the middle of the night before I took him to the vet: 2 (total number of items hucked up: 3 hair bands + the hat off a popular toy).

Number of x-rays it took to determine their was still an obstruction despite the earlier vomiting: 2 (the second x-ray showed his stomach two-thirds full with something).

Number of additional hair bands removed from Simon's stomach through emergency surgery: 27 (and the piece of cardboard they were originally sold on).

Number of meds Simon needed to take post-surgery: 7 (along with food in three hour intervals).

This picture taken of him on his first day of freedom after ten days in a kennel= priceless.

I grew up in the country. No house keys (the doors were never locked). No fences. No street lights. No grocery store within miles. No video games (or any videos for that matter). No cable TV. No cell phones. No computers. No TV dinners.

But we did have horse corrals nestled among gently swaying pines and shady oak trees. Trips to the library to fill up laundry baskets with books. Rented film projectors to see Dracula on a sheet taped to the wall. A community lake where I learned to swim. A sailboat in the garage.

We did ask our neighbors for eggs and sugar and advice. We knew the basic history of every family in the neighborhood. Kids walked from house to house to play, parents tracking us down by phone to come home for dinner. And we ate at the table.

Going to the movies was a real treat. Hearing coyotes howling in the night was normal. Snakes were common but still scary. Deer, rabbits, goats and even a stray horse now and then were regulars in the garden.

Community happened every day. Life, death, and other milestones were all celebrated. Every family was a different religion, or no religion at all. Political differences were discussed at birthday gatherings or the annual Women's Association Luau, but with a measure of respect for those involved in the conversation. Nobody even thought to build a fence around their yard.

I love the California State Fair. Year after year I look forward to the hot, greasy, dirty experience. Before leaving the house the morning of the fair, I make sure to don my most comfortable shoes and to tie my hair back in a ponytail (any hint of a part in my hair and my head fries like a lobster). I have gone to the fair with many people over the years, but most consistently its been with my friend Kelli on and off over the course of 25 years. Early on we were drawn to the midway and carnival games. Kelli is GREAT at the carnival games. Usually a very sweet person, Kelli gets this strange gleam in her eye when she focuses on the bottle or darts or whatever it is that she is trying to use to win a "free" stuffed animal and she has a great aim. As teenagers, we were entralled with the myriad of vendors hawking products we have never heard of (do we need a navel cleaner? how did we live without one before now?). As young adults, we became more acutely aware of the special exhibits and what they were trying to teach us (sometimes about the environment, sometimes about another country, always interesting) and the welcome air-conditioning these buildings provided. Now in our thirties, we gravitate towards the wine garden and partake of the excellent wine along with samplings of bread and cheese. One year we tasted more than 15 wines (getting ourselves tipsy in the process because we did more than just taste). We bought our favorite bottle of wine, saying we would share it during some special event during the year. I ended up drinking it with a boyfriend on New Year's (turns out it was a special event for me, but not so special for Kelli).

I have several singular memories of the State Fair. This is where I saw my first concert (Huey Lewis and the News) and where I first heard that Princess Diana was dead (as I got in the car to pick up the rest of my family at the gate).
I also have several memories that are generally the same, but quintessential to the State Fair experience. By far, these include the animals. I can't wait to see the baby pigs , lambs and cows (even though, again, they look remarkably the same from year to year). I love that the State Fair has maintained its farming roots. I love the rodeo and fancy horses. I love the frisbee dogs and the endless rows of Heifers. Ah...the aroma makes me feel safe. I am a kid again...everything is well in the world.

This is Victor and Diego. Together they have the energy of a tornado and a herd of stampeding elephants combined. Victor loves science--as demonstrated by his endless intelligent questions (Tia- how do cell phone towers work? Tia- what is the square root of 162?). Diego loves dogs...is PASSIONATE about dogs (when his cousin got a dog for Christmas last year, Diego called his grandparents and lamented "I didn't know you could ask Santa for a live dog!--he has not forgotten this...when asked by his grandma just two days ago what he was going to ask Santa for Christmas this year, Diego responded "a dog" without missing a beat). Victor is tall and cautious. Diego is thin as a rail and a bit of a brute...Diego is also prone to serious injury. To date, he has been flown by helicopter to a trama center for falling in a campfire pit, flung into the back of an ambulance with blood pouring out of his head after being hit by a clown with a pinata stick (no kidding) and almost trapped in the lift gate of a truck. Victor is a sports whiz. He could tell you, with extreme accuracy, almost all of the NBA players and what team they play on (updated from the recent trades and draft), most of the NFL and even some NHL. Both kids would happily spend days on end at their Grandma and Grandpa's house (grandpa has various names including Papa Bob and Grumpy, Grumpy Grandpa--the last being a name Diego christens him when grandpa finally can't take the extreme audio decibels when the kids are overly excited). Diego loves tomatoes so much that he named his hamster Tomato (one of the most unfortunate lives in the world is Diego's hamster whose innards tend to get squeezed a lot as he is being handled)--Diego will also go to great lengths to get his hands of pickled beets...his father had weird eating habits at his age too...Victor is the entrepenuer...during a recent, rather unsuccessful yard sale, Victor surveyed the situation and promptly trooped into the house, removed an orange juice container from the freezer and brought the orange juice to the edge of the driveway with a sign that read "Juice 25 cents"...his theory? He was going to get this yard sale started because he was so cute no one would be able to resist him...Indeed, Victor, indeed...

By special request...heeerreee's Seamus! Seamus is 8 months old and has 4 moms and 1 dad. His breeder moms (Kelly, Pat and Stephanie), the mom that taught him manners (Alison) and the only male influence on his life (Dave) who took pity on his whiny self too many times to count.

Seamus is what my mother would call a PIP...he burst out of his mother's womb with a smirk and immediately became the most annoying littermate in the pack. Seamus hogged all the milk. Seamus forced his way into the warmest places near his mother. Seamus ate the most tasty corners of the cabinets. Seamus always got the best toys. When a mystery illness swept through the litter, Seamus remained unscathed.

Seamus has an adorably cushy face and the sweetest demeanor...and periodically lets out a purely unholy screech that sounds like 4 women being murdered while screaming banshee's circle their heads with a soprano singing a sad aria in the background...especially when you touch his feet. Tibbies are known for having unique quirks, this one happens to be the loudest of any we have encountered. When he lets one loose, the immediate human reaction is to clap our hands over our ears and head toward the ground.

So if you hear unholy screams coming from our house, no worries...we are just trimming Seamus' nails...

This is “My Precious Truck” so dubbed because it is by far the nicest vehicle I have ever owned and it is all mine…or rather mine and the lien holder’s :P What I mean is that this is the first time I have researched, chosen and purchased my own vehicle all by myself. Up until this time, I have had family and friends intimately involved in my car buying experiences, and my vehicles have been largely modest, to say the least, and always a group experience in the decision making department. My first vehicle was literally a rotting metal heap on top of four wheels, purchased for $600 from a co-worker of my dads otherwise known as a 1976 Vega (for which I was very grateful that my parents purchased for me). I believe that everyone should have to drive a heap (and a stick shift) once in their lives, just so that you can always be grateful for anything better that comes along. My heap took $6 in gas for the week and got me through three years of high school, never once leaving me on the side of the road, and acting as an alternative ride more than once for friends who had better looking vehicles that tended to break down more often than “the heap”. In the course of my relationship with this car, the driver side door fell off and had to be welded back on (thus giving me the nickname “daisy duke” in high school because I had to climb in and out of the window in my Catholic school girl skirt) and I lost all ability to use the stereo speakers that were never properly installed, but rather placed gingerly on the back seat where some unlucky friend had to sit on them, typically causing the loose wiring to dislodge on a regular basis until they were frayed beyond repair. For my high school graduation, my parents took mercy on me and bought me a lovingly-used Toyota mini-truck that I cherished for years to come.

From there followed a compact Mercury Topaz from my grandmother when she decided to quit driving and from there a Honda Civic from my best friend. Now this Honda had a history because mere days after my best friend bought the car, my then sixteen-year-old brother plowed into it with the family van, causing thousands of dollars in damage. The car was fixed and my friend drove it for years, adding all the little details that make a car an extension of how cool you are…rims, fin, window-tinting, etc…this car had it all and it was way flashier than I am (teenagers regularly tried to engage me in street races). It was also cursed. I swear, from the minute my brother crumpled that fender, that car hated my family. It was broken into four times…three times for the stereo and once just for a joy ride and it was the third car in a slow-speed 4 car pile-up one day on the way home from work. After that, I put my foot down, got rid of the car and bought another Honda Civic, this time a sensible, completely un-cool, 4-door from another close friend. I prided myself for the longest time that I had this really economical car that I could park anywhere because I didn’t care a whit about it AND I wasn’t contributing to our dependency on foreign oil—causing kids in Honduras to clean their feet with gasoline every night because that was the only way to get the black tar off their feet from all of the American drilling on their native land (I am still having mental issues with this) because I wasn’t like all those irresponsible SUV people (selfish beings!). Then my sensible car started to age, and it came time to start making decisions about what to do…start taking it to the dealer on a regular basis for check-ups (out of the question...you know they just rip you off!) or buy another car.

So, in typical fashion, I played with fate and drove my car with no professional mechanical supervision (with my dad bailing me out once for a hydraulic problem) and researched trucks and other vehicles to the best of my attention span for the subject (which is about 3 minutes a week) until I finally came across this lovely truck and it was love at first sight. .. I have always loved trucks…they fit my 5 foot 10 inch frame so much better than a car (particularly a Honda!). I pay for that love (don’t you always) in money and guilt (I am now no better than that gas-guzzling idiot Lincoln Navigator driving down the street), but right now I don’t care. I am simply basking in the glow (isn’t it just adorable). A friend of mine insists that you should always name your vehicle and then it will protect you (including never breaking down) so I briefly toyed with the idea of calling her “Delta the Doublecab” but then this friend bought a new car with an alignment problem that even the dealer hasn’t figured out how to fix, so I am thinking I’ll just stick to “My Precious Truck”.